White Squall
by hereswith
Summary: Jack and Elizabeth, set years after the end of the movie. The follow-up to "Marchland", in which an important question is answered.


**Disclaimer**: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Disney. No infringement  
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.  
**Summary**: Jack and Elizabeth, set years after the end of the movie. The follow-up to  
"Marchland", in which an important question is answered...  
**Important author's note**: The story below is a slightly _**edited**_ version, to read the whole  
fic, go to my Livejournal, the address is in my Personal Profile! I'm not sure if it was strictly  
necessary to edit it, but I had to do that anyway, to be able to post it on another site, so  
I thought I'd do it here as well, just as a precaution.

******  
White Squall**  
by Hereswith

He opened the cabin door too quickly to have been abed, but he did look rumpled and  
his coat and hat had gone missing, along with his boots. When he saw her, surprise  
flickered across his face. The hour was late enough for that, and full night had long since  
descended on the ship. Elizabeth squared her shoulders.

"I can't sleep," she explained, and it was no more than the truth. Her thoughts had indeed  
denied her rest—again—and she had lain awake, alone in the berth that had once been  
Anamaria's, beset by the knowledge that no vastness of ocean separated them, this time,  
only the planks of the _Pearl_, his beloved _Pearl_, and an honest answer.

"No?" said Jack, with an odd, mercurial grin. "That makes two of us, then."

And he stepped aside, to let her in.

o-o-o

Candles were lit around the cabin, and gossamer shadows rippled on the walls like water.  
There were maps and charts strewn over the tabletop: it appeared he had been perusing  
them before she had knocked. Elizabeth noted the quill and ink, standing next to a bottle  
of rum, as well as a few scribbled pieces of paper. "Planning, Captain Sparrow?"

"Planning and plotting," the Captain replied. He sprawled into a chair and propped his  
feet on the edge of the table, ankles crossed. "Well, what is it that keeps you from your  
slumber, Mrs. Turner?"

He sounded mildly curious, merely that, and his gaze was neither mocking nor teasing,  
but her mouth went dry as dust, and she could not speak.

"Elizabeth?" he prompted, as the silence lengthened.

"It's not— "she began, then faltered and shook her head, angrily, hating how the words  
tangled and stuck in her throat, when they were so perfectly clear in her mind.

She had not acted the shy, blushing maiden in his company, even when she, by rights,  
ought to have, and—_blast it_—she would not do so now. It came out clumsily, but that  
was of no consequence, because she said it, and the boundary was breached: "You."

His brows lifted. "How's that, love?"

"You've behaved like the veriest gentleman, of late," Elizabeth pressed on, gradually  
finding her ground, and the courage that had eluded her. "And I'd rather you didn't."

Jack's pose remained the same, in fact, he did not move at all, but every semblance  
of leisurely ease vanished, laying bare a sharp, piercing intensity. Though this had  
happened, in the past, Elizabeth had seldom been the cause of it, and was far from  
impervious to its effects. A frisson ran through her, much like the sheer thrill of the  
height, after having climbed to the crow's nest.

"Is that so?" he asked, and his voice slid down, and deep underneath her skin. "If my  
being a gentle man displeases you, Lizzie me girl, pray tell what kind of man you'd have  
me be."

"A scoundrel." The irony of it almost made her smile. For the whole of their acquaintance,  
that epithet had been an insult, and she would have scoffed at the idea that it would, one  
day, carry another meaning. "A pirate. It's 'aye', Captain Sparrow."

His eyes turned nearly as black as the kohl that outlined them, but he still did not move.

Elizabeth swallowed, and added, somewhat unsteadily, "I want you to touch me, Jack.  
I want it so much it hurts."

A tense quiet reigned, for a moment, an entire eternity, and she felt frayed by emotion,  
then Jack swung his feet down and rose, approaching her with less swagger than he  
was wont to display, but with all of his liquid grace.

He stopped in front of her, at such a distance as might be considered inappropriate  
between a gentleman and a respectable widow, and his nearness, the solid warmth of  
him, unnerved her more than she had been prepared for, but not more, she suspected,  
than he had intended it to do.

"Touch you, eh?" he said, ever so lightly. "Like this?"

He did not thread his fingers through her hair, the way he had before; he traced  
a feathery path, instead, from her temple and over her cheek, swerving around the  
curve of her jaw. Her pulses leapt, and she let her head fall to the side, yearning for  
more, like a starveling. But Jack ignored the opportunity with which she presented  
him; he drew back and studied her thoughtfully, as if contemplating a delicate problem.

"Or, perhaps," he mused, "like this?"

With infinite care, he took her hand, skimming his thumb across the scar, and he did  
not wait for her to become adjusted to the feeling, ere he placed his lips where his  
thumb had been. Elizabeth gasped and her other hand clenched and unclenched,  
convulsively, bunching in the fabric of her breeches. Such a little thing, and yet she  
burned—_Good Lord_—she'd be cinders and ash when this was done.

"Yes," she choked out and, "No."

Jack straightened. "Too much, is it, Elizabeth, or not enough?" He leaned forward,  
to whisper in her ear, "Show me."

She twisted, with a muffled oath of frustration, blindly seeking his mouth, and he  
responded with a hunger that was, she discovered, similar to her own, pulling her  
flush against him. It was not like kissing Will; apart from the trinkets and the taste  
of him, the manner of it was all Captain Jack Sparrow, and she lost herself to it,  
drinking him in.

It ended, as abruptly as it had begun, and Elizabeth stumbled backwards, bumping  
into the table. She fought to catch her breath and, as she looked at him, could not  
comprehend how the dancing, the not touching, had even been possible. "If we  
don't get to the bed very soon," she said, with a shiver, "I don't think we will."

"Can't argue with that, love," he answered, unbuckling his belt, "but I'm not the  
one clinging to the table for dear life."

"Oh!" She flushed, disconcerted, and relinquished her grasp.

"Not that I'd complain," Jack continued, blithely, untying his sash, "and those charts  
could be pushed away, in a thrice, if you're set upon it."

A shaky laugh escaped her. "The bed would be more comfortable, I believe."

"I imagine it would," he agreed, discarding his vest, and his smile widened, it brimmed  
with golden, wicked delight. "Come here."

She did.

o-o-o

They stayed entwined, afterwards, for a long while. "Now that," Jack eventually  
observed, "was interesting."

Elizabeth snorted, and she hit him, but not in earnest, it ended up a butterfly stroking  
along the slender arc of his spine. "Wretch. _Very_ interesting, at the _very_ least."

He chuckled. "Fair enough. _Very_ interesting."

When he withdrew from her, she curled up next to him, utterly spent and scorched  
near translucent, if not completely turned to cinders and ash. Little by little, she became  
cognisant of her surroundings and the noises that floated around her. The _Pearl_ was  
conversing with the ocean, in a continuous singsong; hushed murmurs and whispers  
interspersed with the groaning of timber.

"A penny for your thoughts, love."

Elizabeth started, having presumed he was sleeping. She rolled over onto her stomach  
and up on her elbows, her hair shrouding her. "I wonder," she said, and it was not  
altogether in jest, "if she disapproves."

"Not as such," Jack replied, amused, and he did not question whom or what she  
meant. "She won't forget you brought me back to her."

Elizabeth nodded, strangely relieved. She did not exactly believe his statement, but  
neither could she have sworn he was wrong. The border between the conceivable  
and the inconceivable was uncommonly thin aboard the _Black Pearl_, curse or not.  
Skeletal crew or not. And if the _Pearl_ had good graces, she'd prefer to be in them.  
She reached out to fiddle with a metal coin. "Jack? The reason you were awake,  
was it alike to mine?"

"Well," he said, with an admonishing tap to her shoulder, "your answer tarried, Mrs.  
Turner." Her cheeks heated, suddenly, and he added, "What decided you?"

She hesitated, then admitted, "What should have decided me, when you asked, save  
for fears and foolish notions." Her fingers darted to the scar from where the Spanish  
Commander had shot him. "If—God forfend—fate and fortune should ever be less  
kind, I would never forgive myself for not doing this."

Jack pondered that, his mien serious. "And having done it, as it were, do you regret it?"

"No," she said, simply, but with firm conviction, and crept forward a bit to be able  
to properly kiss him, lingering until her breath was quite stolen away. Pirate.

"The men will talk," she mumbled, when she could.

"They'll say it's about bloody time, I reckon," Jack remarked. "Gibbs made a to do  
about my purported ill-humour yesterday, and even Parrot's been eyeing me funny."

"Parrot?" Elizabeth grinned. "Doesn't he always?" And a wild, curious joy unfurled  
within her, the spread of its wings like that of an albatross. Or a dragon. "They would  
be right, you know," she said, "it _was_ about time."


End file.
